The Last Poem is a Bitch

The last poem arrives with a

Primordial belch

Exhausted on arrival

Falling to the ground

Wheezes at the finish line

Pulls a deep breath through a straw

Raises its hands in triumph 

Basks in absent anticipated glory

The last poem evaporates home

Sits at the table alone

Sucks down a power drink 

Wonders if it was worth it

If it ever was

If even looking back at the firing squad

Makes a difference

The last poem

Tired

Reflective

Swallows the year and three Advil

Wondering what its 364 siblings are doing

Decides it doesn't matter

Fixes a drink

Something tasty on ice

Now appreciates the fuss

The last poem is a bitch

Shredded

Absent of defense, pretense 

Grows old with the spider

Hatches another plot

Waits for discovery

If only, the poem thinks

If only for righteousness 

If only for love

Amy

Overlooking the world, the pines, the bird feeders, the town, relaxing in an Adirondack chair, ruby red wine and IOS device at hand, chimes playing on the wind, canine sons at her feet, plants growing with her care, angry hummingbird whistling at a brave intruder, she contemplates the world and wonders how it can get much better than this. 

Rayna

A sweet slice of a miracle, she embodies discovery, on wheels, dropped iPhones, the hopes and dreams of so many, a heavy burden borne with grace and beauty, the last of a line, ready to take her own place in the world though there is no rush. She is saturated with a warm spiritualness and equal competitiveness, a mixture thoughtful and scary, warm and infuriating, a smile that swallows the day.  Growing up too fast, nature observes, but there will be time for nostalgia another day. 

Brian

He looks toward Colorado, the mansion on the hill, the next step, a joyous sacrifice, donning the white jacket and animal infiltration, of independence and days ensconced in classrooms and libraries, of lectures and books, to be the smartest one in the room so that, one day, he can be the man in the room with non-speaking patients who will rely on him for salvation and love, scalded by the brightness and certainty of a future mapped out, its branches and options ready, willing, able. 

Mara

She edges into Chicago, its broad welcoming shoulders bowing, already conquered, a feeding frenzy, the U-Haul bouncing against intruding vehicles.  Out of the way! A life awaits, sparkling and bright, blinding, daring her to discover every level of richness, noise, plurality, satisfaction. I'm here, she shouts, and the curtain rises, offering oh so many promises and fortune, excuses for to unending toasts.

Road

The shortest route

From here to there

Is a road with four turns

Three for each ambition

One for obligatory regret

It's a highway of love

Of fear

Of trepidation

Of not knowing what destination will be found

A trail of tears

Pies 

Abandoned mining towers

Radar speed traps

Endless voices on the wind

Calling, singing, sighing

Steps

I did not get my steps in yesterday. They exist somewhere. Other people more committed than me must be walking, taking the steps that were to meant be mine, now absent from my Fitbit wristband. Where are those steps?  Who has taken them? They are elsewhere, walking away without me, experiencing exotic locals, pushing into foreign territories, exercising, getting into shape, smelling roses. Those stolen steps, fleeting, are taken away in furtive glory. 

Robert Glaston

Robert Glaston rakes the sand

The sun threatening to rise

His personal public zen rock garden

Spoiled by cleats and golf balls

Stands aside

Watches wayward swings

Disrupting his lines

Ruining designs

Always another round

Another morning of grooming

Athletes looking through him

One Day

One day

Something else will go right

One of those dreams

Hovering there in the distance

Brass ring

Just out of reach

The promises of youth 

Snapped up by dragons and folly

Even Phil Mickelson finished second in the US Open six times

Yellow Flowers

It's as big as a baseball but you can swallow it whole, gulping it down raw, tearing through your esophagus, taking with it soft tissue, the last remnants of ego, and anything remotely resembling strength. It tastes bitter but fills the emptiness in your gut, challenging you to suppress everything rank and base. Perhaps there will be consolation--a rain of tiny yellow flowers suffocating the soul, leaving a blanket of soft sponginess throughout the city.  That's someone else's tale, but still.

Marie Johnson

Marie Johnson shelves another book

Finds three out of order

Stalks the punks who have 

No Respect

For Melvil Dewey

She fears for dogeared copies

Cries because no one checks out her favorites

Laments the rise of ebooks

Curses Amazon

Hunts for tomes that spew the F word

Spies on handsome middle-aged men who pay her

No Attention

Lonely, despondent, withered 

She hides in her apartment and secretly reads Anne Rice

Silence is a Dagger

Silence is a dagger

An El Salvador machete 

Sliced air between two points

As final as a period

As finite as blood on sandpaper 

It falls heavy

Dropping hot lead into water

Throwing blisters

Heaving insults 

Trying to settle on love

Coming up empty with pride and empty intelligence

Bitch Slapped

I kinda like you

As I admire bacteria 

Your hair becomes pasta 

In my eyes

Your breasts poke at my brain

My junk says

Come here

Who else writes you a poem?

I could be picking my feet

Which makes me think of you

And all your autumn armpit hair 

Captures my attention

I love you

Kinda

Den

Early this morning I sat on the edge of my cold steel bed and waited for the Red Guard to take me to the public square where I would be executed for love.  Tired and sore, I pulled myself up.  I would not miss this prison and its reeking sewer hole that delivered roaches and slime rats at night.  It was always dark down here except for a tiny thick glass window that allowed in an occasional sliver of gray light from somewhere above.

Squillo

Squillo splashes the tongue

Coming alive

Driving toward the throat with

Rapture

Thirst quenching

Refreshing in its dehydration

Muddle the cucumber with wooden bat

Pulverize the tissue into thick bloodied goop

Equal parts Absolute Mango and sour mix

Mound of ice

Shaken until atoms combine

Exploding

Needing another

Behold: Advil 

Quail of the Valley

Quail of the Valley

Travel in twos 

Nervous

Darting

Searching for clues

Tentative to the bush

Glancing everywhere at once

Scared 

Cautious

Feckless and dunce 

Cackling, flustered, neurotic

Beware the shotgun

  

Elephant

Watching out

For those who are watching out

Oversight of oversight

Double checking the double checking

Resting weary mind

Waking up in perspired sheets 

Writing down items to

Free the mind 

Unrecognized scribbles in the morning

What does it mean to reference a half-dead elephant? 

Cosmo Dreams of Flies

Cosmo dreams of flies

Plump, slow, juicy ones

Bursting with blood and guts

Easy to catch 

A morsel protein treat

He steps into a cool brook

Laps at the water striders

Lowers his belly to refresh

He steals a bone

Rolls on his back

Positions himself over his master's foot

Wishes it was 4 p.m.

Julio Lechuga

Julio Lechuga stands down the street from the DES, huddled with others waiting for day work. He will do anything within reason and as far as his strength will carry him, forced into labor servitude to earn money he'll send across the border to his sweetheart. A man pulls up in a van and points at three men who climb in. Julio, unchosen, walks to the curb and kicks a rock, certain he has missed his chance today. He recalls his father, a large big-handed man who should have lived forever, who would tell him about large mountains and the jewels they carried. Be smarter than I am, he told him. Julio shrugs off the heat and turns his back on the sun. Tomorrow will be better, he thinks, another day, another chance. 

Dupont Circle

I lost my only coin in Dupont Circle and had nothing for the fountain, an offering, a dime, which was my last hope for netherworld communication, a thought cloud riding on ethereal wavelength rails, traveling with the wishes and prayers of a dozen others who stood by the water, throwing pennies, closing their eyes for an instant, blocking out the bongos and harp and laughing pubescent boys playing team keep away, pleading with the gods for just a scrap of understanding. 

Elaine Carstadt

Elaine Carstadt burns her hand on the stove

Curses herself

Clumsy

Searches for ointment 

Wraps gauze into a mitt

Ghost puppet

She drives with one hand

Can't apply makeup

Questioned at work

Makes up stories

Fell out of an airplane

Fought off mugger

Touched poison ivy

She pecks at a keyboard

Hunts for words

Finds she is less of a person

That her life is changed

She can't recall where she left the rest of her body 

The good half

The worthless half

Random half

She shuffles through her apartment

Trying to assemble her life

As if it were worth it

Amity

Energy expended on ego

Anticipating animosity

Predicting conflict

Unfair as a slain lamb

But is there any righteousness in squaring off?

Pushing someone to cross the green mountain?

Where is the virtue in that

Or the virtue in surprise?

Let us all wish for amity

Of hope

Bonded understanding

Pale shade of love

Or semblance of love

Perhaps resemblance

The song fools you 

It's not over

Never was

Magic glasses are bestowed

Permitting true vision

Each other's shoes

Maybe it's that savory snack mix

With poison and 6 percent iron

Press on toward the horizon

It offers that green mountain 

Ready for crossing if it comes to that

Gerald Semster

Gerald Semster works alone

A porkpie hat

A landline phone

Calling strangers at their homes

Asking their opinion.

He mostly gets some angry no's

An F-word curse

Told where to go

At night he dons a mask for show

Joining all his minions.

Four lives ago he rode a horse

To spear some game

To scalp and curse

With paint and fear across his face

Chief of all the Indians. 

 

Toast

I propose a toast today

To celebrate or sail away

To lift our hearts

And bend our minds 

In jealous reveries

Shine a spotlight on these few

Who show us what we used to do

To close the door

And douse the lights

In carnal heavenly

We turn our backs and ride away

Allowing this to be their day

To let it go

And pass the torch 

In cycles endlessly

Shooting Star #2

I hear that song and I'm back in the car again, driving south at night to oblivion, a nightmare in three acts, a cast of thousands. The highway is crowded but my car is the only one on it, transfixed by that song and its eerie swamp twang, the sighting of a heavenly event and how it connects the singer and me to everything that ever occurred or will happen, a refrain of such pain, such longing, self-reflection. The song ends and I play it again to revel in its moment, to set a place, hammer in a marker of this moment and others like it, to be a player in a great act of cowardice, confusion, retribution, of you, of me, of everything I might have accomplished.  I am forever hearing that perfect terrible melody.

Things I Think About Just Before I Die

Oh hell

Bills unpaid 

The dry cleaning

Who will be there

What will they say

Who will know to renew things 

Maybe it's not that bad

So this is it

I made it, at least 

Only halfway done

Please don't let it hurt

Who are those people

More dignity please 

Getting cold

Very tired

Just let me close my eyes for a second

I'll be fine

The insurance is paid up

Never got around to choosing songs 

Where's the light?

Unfair

So sorry

Big mistake

Stop it